


Wild Spirit - The Werewolf

by ShahKiertai (aboxfullofocs)



Series: Wild Spirit [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Mental Instability, Multi, Smut, Werewolves, depictions of insanity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2019-12-07 11:48:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18234458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aboxfullofocs/pseuds/ShahKiertai
Summary: In the time of the Dragon Crisys, a elf adventures into Skyrim to find the secrets of his nord heritage and the answer to the madness in his mind. In Jorrvskar he finds meaning and loss and the beginning of a long journey.Lysander Fire-Bear finds himself in Skyrim, seeking the only solution to free his soul from the daedra that owns it, of course, his solution is insane. His solution is to turn into a dragon, he just needs to find how, and in the process of finding how, he might just have solve a few crisys. A dragon uprising, a Civil War, a Thalmor Threat, his very unstable destructive power, his broken mind and Guilds in trouble.He started with Winterhold but it is in Jorrvaskr that he finds home.





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> A revamping of the Wolf Spirit story.

**If he was to die, he’d die kicking and screaming and fighting.** It was something his father always told him. And it was kicking and screaming and fighting that he lost and found himself again. And it was kicking and screaming and fighting that he saw his father go, die, not by the hands of the elven overlords that held them both captive, but by his own.

Centuries of knowledge, centuries of power snuffed away and it had been by Lysander’s hand. And now, for the first time in his life, he was about to see the skies of Skyrim. Were they already there? He could feel the air, the breeze colder as the large mountains that cut the sky separating Cyrodil from Skyrim got closer. His father had always promised him he’d take him to see Skyrim, but Lysander thought it would be with his father that he’d see Skyrim.

It would be in peace he’d see Skyrim, when the Empire won the Great War, when the Dominion had let them to their own designs. But no, it was not like this that he was walking into Skyrim. At the edge of border.

It was in turmoil and war, and it at the edge of insanity that he’d see those skyes, with hands tainted of blood of the onl family he ever had.

“I’m sorry…”

“It wasn’t your fault,” the voice behind him spoke.

Lysander was met by blue eyes on the face of a white leopard khajiit that held his head over his lap. Around him, the carriage sang down the road, lulling back the shadows of the madness tugging at the sides of his vision. The khajiit gently brushed his head, giving his friend a small toothy smile as he held him there on his lap.

“How long?” Lysander mumbled. 

“Just a few hours.”

“Hours… felt like days.”

“Don’t worry, this is normal,” the khajiit spoke. “The mind wavers when sick, but Ja’Vashani knows you’ll get better. That he guarantees. Tolfdir is a great mage, the greatest Ja’Vashani knows off, and Winterhold has great mages, restoration mages, they can help heal your mind, heal your magicka and your power. And, as crazy as it may sound, if anyone knows of dragons it will be them.”

Lysander lifted his hands, bound by bandages. They no longer ached at least and he flexed the fingers. He had dealt with his little anomaly for so long it no longer bothered him the fact his own magicka would burn into him the way it did, but that was the least of his worries.

“Think we’ll find dragons?” He closed his eyes mumbling with a smile, hoping to keep the thoughts off his mind.

He felt Ja’Vashani brush his face. “Well, Ja’Vashani sure hopes so.”

“I want to be them…” He mumbled and his ears rang with the soft chuckle. “I’d love to see _him_ try to get a dragon.”

“Ja’Vashani believes he has.”

“There are no dragons left, Ja,” Lysander sighed. “My father used to believe they’d return. He was waiting for them to return. They all were.”

“Just because there aren't dragons in Tamriel does not mean they are gone!” Ja’Vashani sighed. “If there is not dragons in Tamriel, we can always head to Atmora, to Akavir, Pyandonea, Thras, Aldmeris, anywhere! Until we find an answer, my friend.”

“Thank you Ja,” Lysander closed his eyes.

 _There is no answer_ , the darkness. _The minds of dragons are as twisted as your own._

The border was getting closer and the carriage stopped suddenly. Lysander sat up looking back at the coachman. A group of legion soldiers walked towards them, instinctively, Lysander pulled the hood of his fur mantle over his head, covering as much of his face he could. Ja’Vashani jumped off the carriage and walked towards the front of the carriage, the Imperials greeting them.

“The borders are closed.”

“Closed?” Ja’Vashani started, his blue eyes falling on the coachman. “Why?”

“Civil unrest,” the man, probably the captain of the border guards, started. “Until the matter is resolved, no one is to enter Skyrim.”

“Ja’Vashani doesn’t believe you understand,” the khajiit started, pointing to Lysander. “We are mages, we’re heading to Winterhold.”

“Mages?” The Imperial tilted his head. “What does a khajiit and a High Elf do travelling together?”

“We’re heading to Winterhold!” Ja’Vashani repeated. “My friend is sick and needs help from the mage Tolfdir.”

“Cyrodiil has a fine magical arts school for mages you can head to or High Rock,” the Imperial sneered. “He can find help there, now get on your way.”

The other guard walked around the carriage, eyes on Lysander who sat on the edge. For a brief second, Lysander’s eyes crossed with the Imperial’s, quickly downcasting them to the ground. The Imperial frowned and got closer.

“You, in the carriage, take off your hood!” He ordered.

Lysander lifted his head, but didn’t look at the Imperial, adrenaline shooting to his veins and he licked his lips, taking a slow breath. Ja’Vashani turned around and lifted his hands.

“Hey! Ja’Vashani’s friend isn’t feeling well, I think-”

“Shut up, cat!” The legionnaire ordered. “We’re amidst a civil war! Are you… Stormcloak sympathisers? Planning to join the rebels against the empire?”

“Stormcloak, you say?” Lysander mumbled looking towards the mountains.

He was looking for an alternative path. If they got deep into the woods, they could actually climb the path between the mountains, maybe even loose the soldiers there. They needed to enter Skyrim one way or the other.

“You! Didn’t you hear me, take off the hood!” The Legionnaire repeated.

Lysander looked at him and jumped off the carriage, the Imperial stepping back, brow furrowed at the sheer height of the man in front of him. Lysander could tell he had miscalculated the size of Lysander, stepping back and looking up to meet Lysander’s firey-green eyes under black warpaint as he pulled back the hood, and firey-red hair framing golden features touched by humanity.

“The fuck are you?!” The Imperial asked. “You’re one big elf! I have never seen a elf your height!”

“I’m half nord,” Lysander grumbled.

Suddenly his eyes fell on Lysander’s chest, on the amulet he wore, eyes slowly going back to his eyes.

“That amulet,” the Imperial started. “Larius, didn’t we get reports of a mongrel elf attacking Thalmor on the road?!”

“Aye, big fellow, a Talo- Aaaaaagh!”

The Imperial didn’t have a chance to finish before Ja’Vashani was shoving his foot as hard as he could on the other soldier’s diaphragm. With a yell the man hunched over, the other turning around and pulling off his sword. Lysander charged at the man who slashed at him, he dodged the blade, jumping to the side of the man, he grabbed hold of the man’s wrist, and twisted his arm, grabbing hold of the elbow and locking his hand sword behind his back, before slamming his foot against the man’s knee, hearing the snap of breaking bone and shoving him to the ground. The other soldier’s nearby yelled, noting the trouble and unsheathed their swords.

“Left, Ja,” Lysander warned pointing with his head towards the mountain.

Letting go of the unconscious soldiers, and grabbing their bags from the carriage, the two rushed towards the treeline that framed the mountain heads above them. They rushed through the trees, despite the yelling of the guards, ignoring them as much as they could, jumping and climbing over rock and fallen trees. They had to enter Skyrim. Once in Skyrim they’d be free.

_Skyrim, yes, that will do just fine._

“Mortherfucker!” Lysander yelled falling to his knees, hands to his head, he could feel the ooze start bleeding off his nose.

“Lysander! Now is not the time!”

“Tell that to _him_!”

He writhed as he felt the tendrils pulling at his brain cells again, the memories and the knowledge prying to his mind. Between the pillars of words, were dragons filling the sky, men worshipping them, great powers and a god, Akatosh and his children, behind a green sky with black oozing waters.

Ja’Vashani rushed to him, yanking him by the arm, pulling Lysander of his delusions.

“Get up!” Ja’Vashani ordered.

He helped Lysander to his feet, his gaze unfocused, he could barely see anything past the dark mist darkening the corners of his sight, or the noise filling his senses with far more than what he could understand and the stench of oil and molten metal. Tripping over his own feet he followed after the khajiit.

They crossed over the top of the mountains, the snow falling around them with the singing wind. Despite the heaviness of the snow they kept going, aware that they were still being pursued by the border guards. Ja’Vashani still pulled Lysander by his arm.

“They’re still coming,” Lysander warned the khajiit.

“Are you alright? You don’t look well.”

“Pfft, that’s the understatement of the era,” Lysander laughed. “I can’t see a thing.”

“Was it him? Was it Mora?”

Lysander nodded pushing Ja’Vashani off and letting himself fall to his knees. He laid his forehead against the cold snow, the khajiit looking over him, towards the path they came from, the wind singing above them, throwing the cold icy snow over the trees. Lysander groaned, pressing his hands against the back of his head, coughing out the ooze that still bled from his nose and eyes.

He could feel his senses clearing, as the maddening sickness the knowledge brought him seemed to wear off.

“This Tolfdir guy of yours better have some way to help me,” Lysander groaned. “He can’t keep doing this to me! If I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s trying to get me killed!”

“We have to go, my friend, the Imperial dogs are coming,” Ja’Vashani warned.

Slowly, Lysander got up and the two continued down their path. They had finally crossed the border, if they could get out of Imperial territory, they’d be safe. Lysander walked groggily, the Khajiit keeping his eye on him and behind them. It appeared the Imperials had given up once they passed the line that gave away the snow and welcomed the short grasses and majestic trees of Eastmarch.

“This is Eastmarch. I know a Khajiit from the Caravans who often trades in Eastmarch, he says the caravans don’t enter the cities, but a lone khajiit and an elf should not be a problem,” Ja’Vashani explained.

“Nothing yells Thalmor more than a high elf and a khajiit, Ja,” Lysander groaned. “There WILL be problems.”

“Ma’Dran says this is the home of Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. He fought in the Great War, an old veteran. Perhaps, if you speak to Ulfric of your father he might help you reach Winterhold. He might have met your father, even you in the Great War.”

“I doubt he ever was in Hammerfell. And it’s been 30 years, how old is this man?” Lysander stopped placing his hands on his knees.

“I do not know, my friend,” Ja’Vashani shrugged quickly walking to Lysander. “But you can try.”

“Oh, yes, I can see this conversation playing out beautifully,” Lysander chuckled sadly, straightening himself. “Hello, my name is Lysander Fire-Bear! I’m the son of general Bowen Fire-bear, the Warlock General who was sold to the Thalmor as a traitor. Yes, that’s the one. I need help getting to College so I can ask the mages who may or may not have destroyed half of Winterhold to turn me into a dragon for personal reasons that may or may not involve daedric princes!”

The khajiit stopped and brushed his head. “That does sound somewhat preposterous, my crazy elf friend.”

Lysander chuckled. “That’s exactly what the jarl will say before sending me to the stocks suspected of being a Thalmor spy! Best case scenario I am shipped to the Riften Warrens, my father said the mad and the sick flocked there.”

“I think the best course of action then would be to find Ma’dran and join him on the way to Windhelm,” Ja’Vashani sighed. “Then Ja’Vashani can hire a mercenary to lead us to Winterhold. I know you can fight your way to Winterhold, but you have a suicidal tendency to pounce Thalmor on the road and I’d rather you did not!”

“I don’t _like_ thalmor.”

“That’s THE understatement right there.”

The two sighed and Lysander nodded as they returned to their path, walking close to the road, but by the treeline. They were around an area known as Darkwater Crossing, and according to a hunter they passed by, there was a small mining community nearby. As they walked they saw an escort of soldiers in blue armour, a banner with a bear, above them, moving towards the same community. Maybe they’d let the two of them join them

“Who are they?” Lysander started.

“Stormcloaks, perhaps?”

“More like Bear-Cloaks” the elf snickered pointing at the bear banner.

“Are you feeling better, my friend?” The khajiit asked.

“My eyes still feel like they’re going to fall off.”

“An improvement, Ja’Vashani is glad,” he chuckled.

“FOR THE EMPIRE! DIE, STORMCLOAK TRAITORS!”

The loud yell threw the two behind the trees, as they hid from sight. Bellow they could see Imperial soldiers jump from woods to ambush the detachment of Stormcloaks that rode down that path. Clearly outmatched, the leader of the group yelled a clamouring order, the soldiers pulling of their weapons to stand against the legion. Lysander watched from behind the tree alongside the soldiers.

 _“If I ever am to die, I’ll die screaming, kicking and fighting! I’ll pull a dragon off my arse if I have to!_ ” His father would say.

“My friend, we should leave!” Ja’Vashani asked.

“No, they’re outmatched!” Lysander said. “It's just like in Hammerfell!”

“Boy! That was 30 years ago! WE have to go.”

“Not me!” Lysander answered. “I am not letting them do to the Stormcloaks what they did to my father!”

His hands shone purple as he held the power of the plains of Oblivion, the bandages around his wounded hands undoing as he pulled through his very flesh a weapon of daedric form, the pain flared through his skin but he ignored it as on his right hand fire formed, bandages burning off completely to reveal black stark burnt flesh.

“The Empire isn’t making a second Hammerfell!” And Lysander laughed and he looked back at the leopard, there was a hit of oozing madness in his eyes. “Come on, Ja! You were never one to walk out on a fight.”

“I am a monk, my friend!”

But Lysander ignored jumping into the fight. With a sigh, the khajiit followed after the crazy high elf.


	2. TWO

He could feel it slithering under his skin, he could see it, black under gold, crawling through his flesh and burrowing as deep as into his bone as it could, like a sickening parasite leaching on his life. He writhed in pain, twisting and contorting his body into positions he didn’t know possible. His bones snapped back and forth to and from their natural position, and _he_ burrowed deep, reaching into his mouth, his nostrils, violating every inch of his being, reaching into the depths of his brain, his flesh, hunting, searching, _stealing_.

_Is this not what you wanted, child? This knowledge?_

_“Do you lack sense boy?! What have you gotten yourself into?”_

And he could hear _him_ sing in the depths of his mind, the old songs of dragons, the words of power, shouting above and raining fire. He could see the words forming in his mouth, he could see the letters engrave into his mind, and he knew so much yet so little, but the pain was sickening, the oozing stench was tainting.

_You wanted to be a dragon, to learn to be a dragon. You wanted the power for it. I gave you the power, but this knowledge you must seek it yourself. But I can give you so much more than this, you just have to submit._

But he couldn’t, he struggled, grabbing the tendrils that burrowed down his ears, trying to pry them off, feeling the piercing pain, the pressure building in his head. He felt like his skull was going to split. It was drilling into his mind.

_Just submit._

And he “heard” it break, like the thundering of lightning and a sharp pain.

_Submit!_

_“If I ever am to die, I will go down screaming, and kicking and fighting!”_

“NOOOOOOOO!”

Lysander’s eyes burst open as he sat up on the night. He was drenched in cold sweat, the red bangs of his hair clinging in wet layers to his forehead and neck. Instinctively he covered his ears, the pain pulsing within them, sounds muffled out as his breathing came in quick ragged breaths. His earsdrums had snapped again, he could tell by the blood he felt running down his ears. The low rumbling of lightning and rain outside stopped him and he looked up at the hay ceiling, a small dormer gave light into the room, drops of rain falling in a bucket in the middle of the room. He held his hand over his mouth as he started trembling, trying to still the sobbing that threatened to come out as his adrenaline crashed down.

“You alright, there? You nearly woke up half of the town!”

Lysander looked to the door of his room, being met by Ralof, in a white shirt and brown slacks, barefoot, hair a mess from sleeping. It took Lysander longer than it should have to recall the events from the previous days.

“Hey, you okay? Your ears…” He started pointing at his ears.

Lysander brushed the palm of his hands against his ears that came out bleeding.

“Shite,” Lysander mumbled, pressing the bridge of his nose. “I forgot where I was! Tell me I wasn’t dreaming and that we got our arse saveds from the executioner axe by a dragon!”

“Aye, we did, mate,” Ralof laughed, that low rumbling laugh, colored by concern. It calmed Lysander, sending a warm sense of security, of humanity down his spine, reminding him he was in Nirn. Not in a depraved realm of Oblivion fending off a godly librarian.  

The man walked in, sitting next to Lysander. His fair skin, gold hair and beard and blue eyes was something Lysander quite enjoyed looking at, the man much smaller than Lysander. The elf pulled his legs over the bed and propped his head on his elbows, watching Ralof from the corner of his eye.

“Your ears?” Ralof pointed.

The elf shook his head and rubbed the blood clean. “Don’t worry. My ears snap every now and then, from…” And he shook his head, wiping the blood of his hands on the furs of his bed. “I am hard of hearing, but it’s not that bad, nothing a healing spell can’t solve.”

“Why-”

“Magic abnormalities,” Lysander shrugged. “A twisted form of the highborn perk I didn’t know mongrels could be unlucky enough to be born with.”

“So, what were you having a nightmare about? Seemed nasty. Was it the dragon?”

“I wish! A leathery black beast of lizard like that fuels my dreams, not my nightmares,” Lysander laughed wiggling his brows at Ralof who laughed.

“You one crazy elf, mate,” Ralof shook his head.

“So, you certain you don’t want to come with me to Whiterun?” Lysander asked changing the subject.

The previous day they had arrived at Riverwood, after being taken to Helgen to be executed for crimes of treason and the entertainment of their elven overlords, and though Ralof was among the rebels, neither Lysander or Ja’Vashani were - despite their interference.

“Nah, I need to lay low before I can return to Windhelm. I just hope Ulfric made it,” he sighed. “I do miss Friga, but I guess I have to wait it out.”

“Friga, you say? She pretty?” Lysander asked.

“Oh! One of the prettiest girls in Skyrim!” And he laughed. “I can even present you to her sister, Nisine! Quite as pretty, they’re twins for a matter.”

Lysander laughed. “I haven’t frolicked with a lass in years!”

“Nah? Not into girls?” Ralof asked punching him in the arm. “Not that I am judging, little elf.”

Lysander laughed. “Hardly little, and why limit yourself? Women, men, khajiits, argonians. Heck, I’ll do a dragon if they hot like Alduin!”

Ralof choked on his laughter and kicked Lysander who tried to shield himself.

“You one crazy elf! Alduin you say?”

SIlence fell when a thundering lightning cracked the sky, Lysander looked out into the Inn’s main hall. Delphine stood at the door of her own room, watching the two men, once she spotted Lysander watching her she returned in. Lysander furrowed his brow, something about that woman left him quite uncomfortable. Once she was gone out of sight the elf leaned back against the wall. Ralof watched him.

“So, what will you do after you inform Balgruuf of what happened in Helgen?” Ralof played with the braid in his hair, it was coming undone. Lysander watched him in silence and scooted closer.

“I plan to head south, back to Helgen,” Lysander answered. “I need to find Ja’Vashani. I need… I need to make sure he’s not dead in there somewhere.”

“Your… friend?”

“Yes, the only I have,” Lysander sighed. “I owe him my life. I need to find him…”

“And if you don’t find him?”

“I’ll head to Windhelm,” Lysander explained, arms crossed. “This was our plan. If Ja’Vashani survived he will find Ma’Dran and head to Windhelm. He’ll probably wait me out there before heading to Winterhold.”

“And if he isn’t there?” Ralof asked again. “What if… this khajiit friend of yours died in Helgen with the others?”

“I’ll climb the  seven-hundred-forty-eight steps-”

“Seven thousand.”

“I know what I said,” Lysander shrugged. “All the way to High Hrothgar and jump off the face of the mountain.”

“By Ysmir!” Ralof choked and punched Lysander. “Don’t say that! If you wanted to end your life-”

“Oh don’t worry, I’m not allowed to die,” Lysander winked. “Won’t stop me from trying though. Maybe I should find that dragon, get him to eat me! Heh! I’d love to see how he’d stop a dragon from doing that.”

“ _He_ who?”

“The daedric prince that owns my soul,” Lysander nonchalantly shrugged leaning back against the wall.

Ralof stared. Brow furrowed, mouth hanging open, he stared and waited before blinking his eyes twice, closing his mouth and pulling his own feet ontop of the bed. He reached for Lysander’s chest, giving a slight flick to the amulets that he held tied by a two crude black leather strips around his neck. An old dented amulet of Talos with a stain Ralof was certain was blood, under the gold amulet of Akatosh. Lysander grabbed absently the amulets, flicking them between his fingers, eyes on the bucket filling of water.

“Goddamnit, elf! That one bad joke! What Prince owns your soul? Sheogorath?”

“I plan to sell it to him next!” Lysander wiggled a brow at him. “Do you think if I sold my soul to every daedric prince, when I die, they’d hold a battle royal to see who gets to take my soul?”

“Pfft,” Ralof laughed and kicked Lysander. “Don’t overestimate yourself, lad! Like the daedric princes don’t have anything better to do.”

Lysander looked away again. “You’d be surprised.”

“Like I was saying,” Ralof started. “Since you’re heading to Windhelm, maybe you should join the Stormcloaks. We could use people like you.”

“Me? Join the Stormcloaks? An elf with broken magic? An archer who can’t aim? A nord who can’t handle a- scratch that, I can handle a sword quite well, if you catch my drift,” and Lysander wiggled his brows with a wolfish grin.

Ralof shook his head and punched him on the arm again.

“I get it! Stop!” Ralof shook his head. “You don’t need to be a Nord to fight for Skyrim. If anything, what happened in Helgen has showed us the true face of the Empire!”

Shaking his head Lysander looked away. “I have seen its face decades ago, Ralof.”

Thunder echoed above them and the two fell silent once more. Lysander crossed his arms, eyes falling on the bucket.

“Anyway, be careful out there,” Ralof asked. “I’d like to see you in Windhelm, perhaps even fight with you! I’ll teach you how to handle a sword!”

Lysander grinned and lifted his brows. “What type of _sword_ we talking about?”

“Oh! For the love of Talos!” Ralof shook his head and sat up of bed. Grabbing a pillow he threw it again at Lysander who burst into laughter. “Go to sleep, lad!”

“Aye, night night,” Lysander winked at Ralof who shook his his head. The Nord walked over to his own bed, and Lysander turned his back to his new friend on the hay.

In silence, he wondered about the fate of Ja’Vashani. Ja’Vashani was a resourceful monk, a khajiit of knowledge, Lysander was certain the dragon hadn’t caught him in Helgen, he was certain the cat had found a way to escape and be safe. Maybe, much like Lysander, he had followed surviving Stormcloaks out of the town. He just hoped to find him.

“Join the Stormcloaks,” he considered it and turned in bed.

His father had moved north before to join Ulfric Stormcloak in the defense of Markath, but they never made it to Skyrim. And now, here Lysander was, 20 years later, more or less, he wasn’t sure. One had no way to chart time in Oblivion, especially while keeping one’s brain from a crazy libraryan’s prying tentacles.


End file.
